


So the walls came tumbling down

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crying, Cuddles, Family Issues, Fluff, Friendship, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Injury, Sadness, Self-Esteem Issues, Sickfic, Sleeping Together, Sleepovers, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I hope we can patch it up together.</em><br/>Five times Les Amis comforted Grantaire and one time Enjolras did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So the walls came tumbling down

**Author's Note:**

> God this is so pointless and fluffy but all of us have those days, I guess, when all we need is to cry and be comforted without any particular reason, at least I was having such a day yesterday so yeah, sorry. I'm not sorry.
> 
> The title and all the lyrics are from the most beautiful, comforting song which brings the hugest smile in my eyes even when I'm alone. ABBA's
> 
>  
> 
> [Chiquitita ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4QqMKe3rwY)  
> [](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4QqMKe3rwY)  
> 

_Now I see you've broken a feather_

Some days the mirror seems to be laughing at him.

He knows he isn’t drop dead gorgeous or talented. No surprises here. He knows that a flawless, skillful man such as Enjolras, bearing the beauty of a God would hardly ever find anything attractive on the cynical, bitter man.

Some days it just happens to be worse.

Papers smudged with pencil are scattered all around the floor, half of them finished, the other unfinished. There are days when every pencil and every piece of charcoal seems completely unwilling to cooperate. His drunken fingers are shaking, every line and every shadow seems to be drawn in a terribly wrong way, mocking him at his face.

_You can’t even do that. What are you good for?_

When his art abandons him, all he can do is throw the wrinkled papers underneath his bed or even worse, stare at them numbly, enhancing the feeling of failure that burns dully in his stomach in a masochistic way.

And the mirror is still laughing at him.

The yellow lamp of his bathroom mirror has gone out and all he could find in his messy apartment to replace it, was a white bulb like those in hospitals, which seems to be focusing on every single flaw, pointing it out sadistically.

He laughs back, a croaked sound, almost hysterical when it escapes his lips. His teeth can’t be so yellow, his broken nose can’t possibly be so crooked, it’s impossible for his blue eyes to seem so dull and for his ears so pointed. Under no circumstances can he bear his dark nest of unruly curls, now unwashed and slightly oily, so different from Enjolras’ golden, shiny, smooth ringlets. A faint bump on his stomach caused from all the beer is making him look pathetic, and the acne scars on his shoulders are doing an excellent job of reminding him the dreadful years of his adolescence.

Jehan and Courfeyrac find him like that, sitting cross-legged on his bed in nothing but a pair of boxers, a huge lump on his throat as his eyes are fixed on the scattered papers on the floor, near the empty beer bottles, socks and pizza boxes.

They don’t need to ask, they just exchange a knowing glance and their fingers entangle. Jehan has already seen this look of self loathe many time in the past, he can literally feel the lump in his friend’s throat and the emptiness of his stomach.

“He’s beautiful,” is all that he manages to mutter hoarsely, images of stunning golden locks and red lips paling the yellowish complexion of his own skin.

“He is…” breathes Jehan, leaning forward to place a kiss on his friend’s forehead, “but so are you.”

Courfeyrac has his camera with him. Courfeyrac _always_ has his camera with him, even in the bathroom with high risk of getting it wet. _Especially_ in the bathroom because Jehan looks stunning with his long hair wet, dripping on his shiny, damp skin…

He wraps his fingers around Grantaire’s wrists and forces him to stand up. Grantaire feels empty, Grantaire feels dizzy but they don’t let him sit back down. The Center’s eyes fall on a gorgeous, abstract canvas in green and black that’s hanging on the wall, showing the execution of a laughing man. “I always forget how excellent this painting is,” he says to Grantaire proudly. The man just shrugs his shoulders as he lets them lead him to the bathroom. “It seems like I can’t paint like that anymore.”

“Nonsense,” snorts Courfeyrac, pushing him down on a chair and replacing the horrible, sanitized white light of the lamp in the bathroom with the dim candlelight of two red candles. “Inspiration doesn’t come _every day._ What you do is art. You know it will come again. You can’t force it. And when it comes it will be beautiful.”

“Just like you,” whispers Jehan in his ear, his warm breath brushing softly against his unshaven skin. Grantaire doesn’t believe them. They know he doesn’t but they do not need to insist and he knows that he can’t make them stop, so he allows his head to fall back on the skin as Jehan washes his hair, taking his time to rub and scratch his scalp with his magical fingertips in the most right ways. The warm water and the scent of the coconut shampoo, combined with the skillful massage on the skin of his head releases the tension from him and finally all his sorrows and insecurities are spread upon him. He doesn’t feel better, but when burning tears fill his shut eyes and run on his cheeks which Courfeyrac seems to be shaving carefully it’s some sort of salvation, when a single quiet sob, almost a whimper comes to shake his chest, Jehan proceeds in wiping his hair softly with a towel and Courfeyrac starts unbuttoning his shirt, relieving him from the heat the tears are filling him with.

He doesn’t pull back when they pin him on a chair and start blow-drying his locks and patting his cheeks with after-shave; the scent immediately makes him feel more presentable, more _human._ Jehan plants tender kisses between his warm now, wild locks and Courfeyrac ruffles them. The poet twirls around the room like an angel, offering blissful smiles to his best friend and boyfriend, singing cheerfully _I feel pretty, oh so pretty!_

 _I feel pretty and witty and gaaaay!_ Courfeyrac’s voice is sassy and enthusiastic as he pulls Grantaire from his seat without his own will, throws his arms around the man’s waist and forces him to twirl and sway with him, half-naked around the room, reminding him the grace which he _does_ after all own when it comes to dancing. If there is one thing Grantaire can do, that’s dance.

He can’t stand this anymore. It is ridiculous. He needs to get away, he needs to breathe, he’s suffocating as a second sob is swelling uncomfortably on his throat. He tries to retire to the bathroom but Courfeyrac throws him on the bed and pins him down, their hands clasped so tight, warm fingers wrapped around his cold ones, not letting him go as Jehan attacks him with eyeliner and _he knows, he knows_ that it’s ridiculous but for some reason he allows him, “ _It’s waterproof,”_ the smaller man says softly and he shuts his eyes while he has them toned with black outline, bringing out his bitter, oddly beautiful blue glance, rich in all those emotions Jehan keeps reminding him he should feel proud of. Tears fall from his eyelids but it’s waterproof so he lets them play, and Courfeyrac brings him the lip-ring he once used to sport and he wears it as Jehan twirls around the room, bringing his leather jacket and throwing it around his shoulders.

Between his tears, Grantaire can’t help but laugh madly, because the situation is completely and utterly ridiculous. For one he feels thankful that Enjolras will never know anything about this nonsense.

But before he can react, his most beautiful sketches are getting scattered around him on the bed and Courfeyrac is adjusting the lighting as Jehan throws him back, revealing his tanned, toned chest from the boxing classes between the leather, and wrapping the green sheets around his muscled limbs. “Beautiful…” he whispers all the time, placing kisses on Grantaire’s wrists. “You’re beautiful…”

And before he can protest, Courfeyrac is taking pictures with his Polaroid, snapping one shot after the other, leaving enthusiastic cries of the fact that he hasn’t take so _hot_ pictures for such a long time. Jehan raises an eyebrow to his boyfriend and says that Grantaire makes him feel jealous. It has a dose of truth.

The pictures are indeed beautiful. The leather combined with the defined eyes and his thin lips half-parted, the ring just on the perfect spot of the curve of his lower lip, the green of the sheets wrapped seductively against dark locks and long limbs…

They watch the pictures afterwards and leave genuine shouts of admiration. Courfeyrac ruffles Grantaire’s hair.

He has to admit that the pictures look good. The corners of his lips quirk upwards slightly.

“He’s beautiful, R, but so are you.”

For once, Grantaire believes them.

*

_I hope we can patch it up together_

“Why in the name of fuck did you have to get into a brawl? Those fuckshits were five times larger than you and three times more drunken that you, if that’s even humanly possible!” Feuilly’s freckled face seems weary, there are dark circles under his eyes and he snorts after pressing some ice on Grantaire’s bruised knuckles, causing him to flinch in pain and chuckle bitterly. His whole body aches, his muscles are sore and he can taste blood. Thankfully both Feuilly and Bahorel are used in such a sight, and know perfectly well how to tend a broken nose and patch skinned knuckles.

Somewhere between the dizzy haze all the alcohol has caused him, Grantaire can notice the huge figure of Bahorel who enters the room, tiptoeing jokingly. He has to admit that it’s quite a sight. “Here’s some booze for our brave knight!” He throws Grantaire a bottle of beer which feels wonderfully cold against his skin, so he instinctively presses it on the bleeding bruise on his forehead.

“You’ll infect the wound, shithead,” sighs Feuilly exasperatedly yet in a tender manner, and stares at Bahorel disapprovingly. “Very clever,” he says sarcastically. “He’s already drunk as fuck!” However he still takes another bottle of beer from Bahorel’s hands for himself.

The larger man snorts. “Don’t worry, ginge. His head is already full of shit anyway.” Coming closer, he presses a wet towel on Grantaire’s throbbing cut and the man swears loudly as Feuilly cleans the smaller cuts with antiseptic. “You had to defend the dignity of our noble leader as if he can’t defend himself, didn’t you?”

“They called him a faggot,” hisses Grantaire through a broken tooth.

Feuilly sighs. “Don’t shout at him, asshole,” he turns to Bahorel. “He already knows what an idiot he is better than we do.”

Bahorel chuckles and pulls the injured man in a bear hug which almost breaks every bone of Grantaire that’s still whole. “That’s why we _wuv him,_ isn’t it?”

Feuilly hides a smile as he turns his back around and Bahorel finds the opportunity to wink in a conspiratorial way to Grantaire and press the beer bottle back on the bruise as most of the ice has already melted.

“We do,” says Feuilly. “He’s a moronic bastard but we love him!”

Grantaire chuckles wearily as Feuilly turns around and pats his arm and Bahorel proceeds to rub his knuckles on his head like Sims tend to do to each other. It makes his head hurt even more, but what the hell, he’s been through much worse.

*

_There is no way you can deny it_

He does try to deny it.

It’s Musichetta who first raises an eyebrow at the suspicious sneezes like an overprotective mother, and Bossuet who asks worriedly if he’s alright or if he’s drunk something that ruined his head, but Joly can smell illness, even when it’s just the flu or a simple cold from miles. He has literally be counting sneezes - _thirteen in a row-,_ he notices the glowing eyes and dilated pupils, and Grantaire’s flushed yet yellowish color is not good, not good at all.

It’s after he looks like he’s suffocating as he’s been trying to clear his throat –in vain- for over ten minutes that the medical student waves his hands in exasperation. “Just let yourself cough already, you can’t hide it anymore!”

Grantaire stops and throws a drowsy, incredulous glance. “ _What_?”

“Christ, you’re worse than Enjolras, aren’t you?” Joly throws himself up and with lithe movements reaches Grantaire’s seat and presses his hand on the man’s clammy forehead, brushing a few stray locks away and flinching at his temperature. “You’re burning up! How long did you think you could hide that you’re sick? What if it is something serious? Like pneumonia? Does your chest hurt?”

“’m fine, Joly, ‘t’s just a cold!” he tries to mutter through pressed lips, as Musichetta has already magically produced a thermometer out of nowhere and Joly has shoved it into his mouth.

“That’s okay, buddy,” smiles Bossuet, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands! ‘Chetta makes the best herbal tea, her grandma’s recipe or something of that sort!”

“I can’t put you into trouble, I’ll just go home and try to sleep it off!” Grantaire croaks after coughing violently in a way which makes it seem like he’ll throw up his own lungs anytime.

“Nonsense,” snorts Musichetta dominantly, handing him a box of tissues which seems heaven sent and wrapping a warm blanket around his shoulders. “You need someone to look after you honey, and me and my boys can always use some company in our movie nights!”

He can’t even deny being sandwiched between her and Bossuet into the fluffy couch –even though the latter seems to be crashing him clumsily at some point-, his head and throat are suddenly aching too much for him to be able to protest and it’s warm between them. It’s raining heavily outside and he shivers feverishly only at the thought of walking to his apartment.

“You’re going to be alright, Grantaire, we won’t let you catch pneumonia, promise!” mutters Joly soothingly and it’s so different from his usual anxious, hypochondriac burstouts everyone is trying to soothe him from. Now he seems responsible and caring, and it’s the change suits him beautifully. Grantaire wouldn’t allow him to fuss under different circumstances, but now he can only feel thankful and full of admiration as he shuts his heavy eyelids and tilts his head back, allowing his friend to gently feel the glands on his throat. His fingers are cold against his burning skin and it’s a nice change. Grantaire slowly dozes off with his head resting on Bossuet’s lap and his friend strokes his hair absent-mindedly while Joly listens to his breathing. They nudge him softly and wake him up when Musichetta arrives with a cup of hot tea which feels like heaven for his scratching throat, and he the four of them curl together in a considerably large couch, limbs and ankles tangled under the huge patchwork blanket, before both Joly and Musichetta place two pecks on Grantaire’s warm forehead and wrap their arms around him, and Bossuet allows him to rest his aching head on his shoulder.

It’s incredibly warm between the three of them, both literally and metaphorically, and he doesn’t care for Bossuet’s piercing laughter every time a funny scene comes in the movie, even though both Joly and Musichetta try to hush him.

The cat finally arrives to their pile of warmth, climbing on Grantaire’s shivering knees and adding a pleasant, comforting weight on him as he dazedly throws his fingers through its warm fur and scratches it behind his ears, hearing it purr in delight.

His serenity is completed when Joly gets up and then returns in the room with his cell phone in his hand. “It was Enjolras. He said Combeferre was asking if you’re feeling better.”

And even though it was _Combeferre_ who worried, wasn’t it, and even though he can hardly breathe through his nose and his throat seems to be burning with all the fires of hell, Grantaire smiles, just a little bit.

*

_You're enchained by your own sorrow_

“So what, you always knew that your father was a self-righteous asshole, didn’t you?” snorts Éponine. “Why would a phone call make you feel like that?”

A vein is visibly pulsating on his forehead and his teeth are gritted. Cosette tries to wrap her fingers around his clenched fists smoothly but he pulls away from her grip. “I don’t give a fuck about him, I haven’t seen him for years. I just know that he gives my sister shit because she enrolled herself in drama school.”

“She can leave him too and free herself from his poisonous ways,” says Éponine hoarsely, giving him the cigarette she’s smoking. He takes it furiously and brings it to his lips, sucking in the grey smoke greedily.

“She’s too good to do that. She can’t bring herself to leave him alone now that my mother’s dead.”

Cosette gets up and throws her arms around his shoulders, rubbing his chest soothingly. “Now, you must not think about him at all. Shove him out of your mind and keep lovely memories of your mother. God knows I did.”

Grantaire’s fury calms for an instant, as he feels sad and ashamed for Cosette’s confession, but soon hatred is boiling in his head again. “I fuckin’ _HATE HIM_!”

“R, you can’t hate your father,” Cosette says softly, slightly scared by his horrible look of anger.

“Of course he can!” growls Éponine. “Shit, I would pay everything to see my own parents burn in hell! His father had always been terrible with him!”

“ _Useless. Dumb. Pussy. Faggot._ That's what I always was for him, THAT’S THE LOVE I GOT FROM DADDY!” shouts Grantaire, throwing a hideous porcelain vase with the back of his hand and smashing it to pieces.

Silence falls for a while and only his heavy breathing can be heard. Cosette seems shocked but Éponine just takes the cigarette from Grantaire’s hand and casually brings it to her lips. “Make yourself at home,” she finally mumbles, handing him another colorful vase.

“What are you…” shrieks Cosette, but Éponine holds her hand up with a sinister look on her face. “It’s my mother’s. No one will miss it,” she shrugs her shoulders while Grantaire leaves a war cry and throws it in front of his feet, breaking it two hundreds of porcelain pieces.

“My parents are equally big fuckers,” chuckles Éponine, throwing an arm around Grantaire who is now shivering.

“My father never wanted me at all,” smiles Cosette sadly. “And I never got to meet my mother.”

“Your father loves you,” growls Grantaire.

“Not him, my biological father.”

“You still have Valjean who is amazing.”

Cosette throws another arm around him. “And you have us. Your father is… he is full of shit, that’s what he is!” Cosette says triumphantly, startling her two friends who were never used to her swearing, even though she always hid quite a badass inside her.

Éponine hits the air with her fist as he pulls Grantaire down on the sofa and opens a bottle of vodka. “He’s the hugest _dickhead_ in the whole fuckin’ universe!” she cheers.

A faint smile appears on Grantaire’s face. He takes the bottle from Eponine’s hands and brings it to his lips. Cosette rushes in the bathroom to bring antiseptic and tweezers to relieve his palm from a tiny piece of porcelain and clean the wound as Éponine starts massaging his shoulders, her fingers doing wonders on every tensed muscle.

He lets a small sigh as Cosette presses her lips softly on his palm.

“Don’t let them bring you down, R,” Éponine mutters. “You have us.”

“We don’t need anybody,” smiles Cosette, smoothing a curl behind his ear. “We are family.”

Sometimes he knows that his girls are right.

He has a family. It’s them.

*

_In your eyes there is no hope for tomorrow_

Combeferre makes him feel even more ashamed than he already is. Grantaire never asked for the bespectacled man to be there, to see him when he’s so weak, so invulnerable, so fucked up.

Nevertheless, Combeferre is still there, kneeled beside him on the cold piles of the bathroom, an arm wrapped around his slumped shoulders, supporting him as he empties the poison of his system in the toilet. Combeferre doesn’t seem disgusted by his state, he just brushes his curls off his clammy forehead and holds him while he throws up violently, quiet and gentle.

When he’s finished he helps him wash his face and they curl together, arms tightly wrapped around him, cradling him like a baby.

“I’m a disgusting mess,” croaks Grantaire. “I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“You’re not a mess and you most definitely are not disgusting,” lies Combeferre obviously. “Everyone has their bad days.”

That makes him feel even worse.

It’s only the beginning of a terrible hangover but he still can feel the effects of alcohol in his brain, he knows he isn’t able to hold back the incoherent rambling which comes about Enjolras, in front of Enjolras’ _best friend_ of all people. He couldn’t have chosen a better man to make an ass of himself.

Combeferre strokes his hair comfortingly and just listens. He doesn’t interfere, he’s just there. “Let’s get you to bed,” he says eventually, when Grantaire’s slurring has finished.

Grantaire is shaking horribly while he supports his weight against Combeferre’s shoulder and allows him to help him to bed and under the covers. Without waiting for an invitation, the man climbs with him and throws an arm around him, pressing it on his chest and holding him tightly.

Grantaire’s glance is made of steel, fixed on the wall opposite them and they stay silent, only interrupted by the sound of their steady breathing. Grantaire prefers it when his hangovers are followed by an awful headache, sore muscles and a dry throat. Feeling physical pain is much different than just being so terribly _numb._ At least when he aches Grantaire can feel alive.

Not anymore. He doesn’t feel alive now.

He can hardly move his eyelids when Combeferre suggests politely that a shower would help, but the dignity he has left inside him protests that he’s reeking of whiskey and vomit, and he feels so bad for Combeferre.

It takes all of the energy he has managed to gather to get up and deny any help as he walks to the bathroom and strips off his clothes. Even though he didn’t want to admit it, the hot water indeed does help his throbbing head and his pulse seems to slow down against his meninges.

When he gets out, dark circles under his eyes but feeling cleaner, hair dripping wet and a towel wrapped around his waist, he finds Combeferre with his sketchbook in his hands. His heart almost stops as pictures full of red lips and golden locks and burning eyes flicker through his mind, but Combeferre stands up and eyes him seriously. His voice is soft. “He doesn’t hate you. He cares for you. Just give him some time.”

Combeferre smells of comfort, of chocolate and soap and wool, and as he wraps his arms around him, Grantaire allows the silent tears to fall freely and soak his light blue turtleneck jumper.

*

_Chiquitita, you and I know_  
 _How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leaving_  
 _You'll be dancing once again and the pain will end_  
 _You will have no time for grieving_  
 _Chiquitita, you and I cry_  
 _But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you_  
 _Let me hear you sing once more like you did before_  
 _Sing a new song, chiquitita_  
 _Try once more like you did before_  
 _Sing a new song, chiquitita_  
  


He knows that a group sleepover is the worst occasion for his sentiments to erupt, but he can hardly hold them back anymore. Flashes of their morning quarrel are filling his mind and the hole in his chest is huge, the tightening of his throat unbearable. He is curled in his sleeping bag and it starts with nothing but a sniffle.

It is Marius who notices first, placing an awkward hand on his shoulder and asking “Hey R, you alright?” and he nods ridiculously as the first tears start burning his eyes before he can hold them back. He wishes he was alone, but then Cosette’s arms are wrapped around his shoulders and Courfeyrac snuggles beside him, pulling him between his knees as Joly returns with a box of tissues and Bossuet throws them at him rather clumsily.

The first sniffles grow to a quiet sob which was swelling beneath his tonsils and comes to shake his body, but Musichetta is fast enough to wrap her arms around his head and cradle him in her chest and she smells of jasmine and fresh baguette and her steady heartbeat gives him a motherly reminiscence which brings another sob, and another, stronger one as tears run freely, every word pounding inside him and stabbing him like a knife with every breath he inhales.

_Useless. Horrible. Good for nothing. Don’t want to see you again._

Everything happens so quickly and rhythmically before his eyes, flowing easily like a rehearsed scene but he doesn’t give it much thought, he half-heartedly accepts a piece of chocolate from the bowl Combeferre offers him with a gentle smile, squeezing his hand comfortingly, _“Chocolate always makes you feel better, trust me,”_ and he does and it’s true, it doesn’t make him feel better but he certainly feels _warmer, stronger,_ and now he’s more willing to cry, and violent sobs are shaking his body and he knows that his face is scrunched up and he’s terribly ugly besides the fact that Jehan is braiding his curls, but still he doesn’t stop him because the feather-weight touches are somehow comforting, and just on time Feuilly appears with fresh baked waffles and Joly hands him a glass _“Water, it’ll make you feel better than beer will, trust me!”_ and Bahorel cracks his knuckles, chuckling softly, _“Whoever gave you shit is going to eat it!”_ and Courfeyrac laughs whole-heartedly and even Grantaire cracks a small grin, mostly to make Bahorel feel better, even though they all know that they’re somehow referring to their friend and leader who seems to be absent, and that Bahorel would never hurt any of the group no matter what _oblivious buttheads_ they were, to use his words, and suddenly they all back off for Éponine who curls her body around Grantaire’s shaking one and wraps her arms around him tightly, letting him nuzzle his face on the crook of his shoulder.

_Chiquitita, tell me the truth_  
 _I'm a shoulder you can cry on_  
 _Your best friend, I'm the one you must rely on…_

She sings the song he’s sung to her so many times in the past and her voice is hoarse and off tune but no one laughs, not at the lyrics, not at anything, they just keep deadly silent at first, and then join in, Jehan twirling around him with Courfeyrac, and Grantaire sobs freely, choking slightly on his own, salty tears, smashing his eyelids together and leaning against the huge, warm pile of his friends.

And soon their voices fade and Grantaire feels exhausted, between his tears and whimpers he drifts in and out of consciousness, his head feeling light and dizzy from the hyperventilation caused by the crying that shook his body until then, and _he_ is standing at the door, beautiful and fierce as always, golden locks shining in the dim light of Combeferre’s living room, his favorite red sweater hugging his body, but something is odd, something is new and different and _wrong_ on his face, he looks ashamed, terrified, uncertain, and he stands awkwardly at the doorway, facing them all, not knowing how to react, but Grantaire cannot raise his eyes and look at him, he feels too weak for that.

Enjolras knows he’s the only one who can fix this and he knows that Grantaire doesn’t need to be fixed, he _knows,_ suddenly Enjolras understands, his eyes have opened and he walks with a firm stride towards the human pile in all the sofas and sleeping bags they were supposed to share.

“Why did you never tell me?” he breathes, before kneeling beside him.

Grantaire slowly raises his red-rimmed, wet eyes and their glances meet. The world stops turning for a while and only their breathing can be heard, before Enjolras slowly but steadily throws his arms around Grantaire’s slumped shoulders, and the man whimpers, trying to catch his breath between incoherent sobs. Enjolras holds him as he lets the tears stream and wet the red sweater and suddenly everyone backs off, leaving them in the middle of the sleeping bags. Before they can say a word, Enjolras realizes that for once, they need to be alone. Grantaire has already relaxed in his embrace when the blond throws his arms underneath the exhausted man’s knees and back and raises him in the air, supporting the stronger man’s weight in a steady way which surprises even the revolutionary himself.

Enjolras smells faintly of after shave and newspapers and coffee, and Grantaire can only rest his dizzy head against the other man’s chest and hear his racing heartbeat, convinced that he can only be dreaming, as the man climbs through the whole staircase, carrying him bridal style, and taking him away from the others, decisively entering his own bedroom. Everything is a haze for Grantaire, who is still feeling dizzy when Enjolras places him softly on the bed and helps him out of his boots before lying carefully near him, spreading his long limbs against the mattress and pressing his forehead against his own.

“I didn’t know it was me,” he mutters softly, wiping a tear away from the –now calmer- man’s face with his thumb.

“It has always been you,” whispers Grantaire, his voice hoarse as his unsteady breath grows even.

Enjolras cups his unshaven face and leans forward, brushing his soft lips against Grantaire’s shut, wet eyelids. “I believe in you,” the revolutionary breathes, pressing his palm against Grantaire’s chest, feeling the cynic’s heart thumping madly beneath his touch.

Their breathing becomes slower and unites in a sweet lullaby and their hands clasp tightly. Enjolras’ voice is soft and angelic as he sings quietly.

_Try once more, like you did before, sing a new song, Chiquitita…_

They both drift into the land of dreams, their foreheads pressed, their limbs tangled together, Enjolras’ warm, peaceful breath brushing against Grantaire’s forehead.

On his lips, a small, serene smile has appeared.


End file.
